


Tobacco and Wet Felt

by dark_def (dedicatedfollower467)



Series: Smells Like Belonging [9]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bukkake, Dad Egbert is the Best Dad, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Underage, Family, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, John is June but she hasn't figured it out yet, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Parent-Child Relationship, Rutting, Scent Marking, btw masculine terminology will be used throughout because june hasn't figured shit out yet, but also she has no idea that's what it is, but only like a lil bit, so like she gets some gender dysphoria issues, so she just feels bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dark_def
Summary: John would never admit it, but he finds his father's scent of wet felt, tobacco leaves, and shaving cream quite soothing.He needs that soothing presence more than ever, when he presents Alpha, and goes through his first rut.
Relationships: Dad Egbert & John Egbert
Series: Smells Like Belonging [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592716
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Tobacco and Wet Felt

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all. I completed NaNoWriMo with over 65k new words in SLB, bringing the current total of stuff I have written to _over 200,000 words._ And to celebrate, I am sharing this fic with you all, finally! I've been working on this a while, and it's finally the way I want it!
> 
> June is trans in this universe, but she hasn't actually figured it out yet, so folks use masculine terminology for this whole fic (and obvs for most of the series.)
> 
> And uh. She's ten in this, and it involves explicitly described masturbation so! I continue to do things that will absolutely get me sent to hell :D
> 
> I also hope this answers at least some of the questions some of you have had.

On a normal day, getting into an argument with Dave about Nic Cage movies is actually kind of fun? You usually get that he’s not really being serious when he criticizes you for liking them— yeah, sure, he’s serious about hating the movies themselves, but he doesn’t actually think you’re like, a worse person for enjoying them.

Today it’s not like that. Today, it feels a hell of a lot more personal.

TG: man con air has plot holes so big you could lose the entire state of alaska inside of them  
TG: sorry mr president we appear to have lost track of literally all of alaska  
TG: what how  
TG: where did it go  
TG: well mr president sir it appears to have disappeared down the gigantic fucking plot holes in a shitty nic cage movie  
GT: it’s not shitty, it’s amazing, fuck you!  
TG: dude its crap  
GT: it is _not!_ its a great piece of cinematography, and i don’t appreciate your attitude dave!  
TG: my attitude  
TG: what are you my old timey grandpa  
TG: who the fuck talks like that irl  
GT: stop making fun of me! it’s not funny!  
TG: dude making fun of you is always funny

You find yourself fisting your hands on your thighs, frustrated.

GT: no it’s fucking not!  
GT: this isn’t something to joke about dave, i actually fucking give a crap.  
GT: and you keep contradicting me for no good reason and it’s pissing me off!  
GT: would it really be too much to fucking ask that you don’t constantly shit all over my favorite goddamn movie?  
GT: really?  
TG: okay geez sorry dude  
TG: didnt realize you were all worked up about it  
GT: well you should have!  
GT: some people can be fucking observant instead of just shitting all over their friends like they don’t even care about them!  
TG: john can you stop being a dick for like literally two seconds  
TG: im sorry sheesh okay ill lay off the nic cage stuff  
TG: you need to lighten the fuck up  
GT: no, YOU need to lighten the fuck up and accept that nic cage fucking rocks!  
GT: _ASSHOLE._

In a fit of anger, you log off of Pesterchum and completely power your computer down— although not before setting your status to “Rancorous” to reflect how pissed off you are right now.

And it’s not just Dave, either! You had a fight earlier in the day with Rose— you don’t even remember what it was about, just that she was being completely fucking unreasonble. Even Jade has managed to piss you off, and Jade’s like the last person in the world you’d ever fight with.

Maybe you just need to cool your head. Take a walk, take a break, and come back. Maybe if you leave it for a little while, Dave will have figured out why you’re so mad at him, and he’ll back down on the whole thing. 

It’s also possible that you might, potentially, be blowing things a bit out of proportion. Just a touch. Yeah, sure, it’s your favorite movie, but it’s also just a goddamn movie. No need to make a whole production about it.

You’ll take a walk, and then you’ll come back and apologize.

However, on your way downstairs, you get sidetracked by the smell of dinner cooking. It’s mixed in with your Dad’s familiar scent— wet felt and tobacco leaves and shaving cream— so instead of heading for the front door, you walk into the kitchen.

“Hey, Dad,” you say, watching as he straightens up from where he was poking around in the oven. It smells like lasagna or maybe some kind of casserole.

“Hello, John,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. “How are you?”

“Eh, I’m all right,” you say with a shrug. “My friends are being annoying. I was thinking of taking a walk.”

Dad nods. “Dinner should be ready in about half an hour, so don’t wander too far,” he says. “And stay safe!”

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” you say.

You make a split-second decision to leave out the back door. As you pass by your Dad, you brush your hand on his shoulder, scent-marking him. His own strong Alpha scent floods over you, and you’re struck by an almost unsettling feeling of rightness and safety. 

It always feels good to have your Dad scent-mark you, but now your chest is almost thrumming with the knowledge that your pack is here and everything is right in the world. You can’t help the short, quiet sound you make, something in-between a croon and a purr. It’s embarrassing as all hell, so you abscond out the laundry room door before he can say anything about it.

Once outside, you take in a deep breath, feeling the cool, crisp autumn air swirl around in your lungs. It’s a nice day, and all the leaves have turned, and you feel sort of oddly proud of how pretty the house looks with the red leaves around it.

Half an hour isn’t a ton of time, so you end up just kind of kicking around in the yard. You find yourself touching the tree and your old pogo ride, and brushing up against the house now and then, scent-marking them as _yours_. That reassuring feeling of _safety_ continues to follow you around, and you feel more and more secure the longer you spend just kind of walking around your house.

You’re not really in the mood to question feeling good, so you just shrug off how weird it is that you’re basically over the moon about _having a house_ , which is pretty much the most normal thing in the world and not something to be all giddy over, and head back inside.

Dinner smells delicious, and Dad has you set the table before sitting down to eat. Normally, you’d lay your place setting across the table from his, but today, you lay them side by side, just for a change of pace. It means that when you sit down to eat, you’re within easy reach of your Dad, and that’s good. That’s just how things ought to be.

When you finish eating, you follow Dad out to the living room and sit beside him on the couch. You consider going and apologizing to your friends like you promised yourself you would, but eventually you dismiss the thought. They can wait, and you want to hang out with your Dad tonight.

He raises his eyebrows at you when you settle down onto the couch, but he doesn’t say anything, just giving you a small smile and reaching out to scent-mark you, brushing some hair out of your face as he does so.

The sound you’d originally intended to be a hum of acknowledgment quickly turns into an embarrassing purr, but fuck it. You feel good, and safe, and your pack is right here, and you’re all set to defend your territory if you need to.

As Jeopardy plays on the TV, you slowly inch yourself closer to your Dad, until you’re leaning with your head on his shoulder. You get a sudden impulse to wrap your arm around his waist, and you decide not to fight it, snaking around his back and squeezing in between his spine and the couch cushions. Your purr gets a little louder.

Dad looks down at you with a smile and dips his head to rub his chin over your face. Then he stops and pulls back, frowning down at you. He sniffs deeply at your hair, and then his eyes widen.

Your heart gives a little thump. “What’s wrong?” you say, tightening your grip unconsciously, crushing yourself to his chest.

“Nothing’s wrong, son,” he says, the smile returning to his face. “I just think I can smell a little pre-rut scent on you.”

You frown. “But you’re not supposed to have another rut for like a month and a half,” you say.

Dad shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, I meant, I think I can smell _your_ pre-rut.”

You gape at him.

“Hang on a sec, what?” you say, pulling back to look him in the eye more easily, although your thighs are still touching. “What do you mean, _my_ pre-rut?”

“You’re presenting Alpha, son,” he says, and once more rubs his hand in your hair to scent-mark you.

“Oh,” you say. That really explains a lot about the past day or so. “Damn, I owe my friends an apology.”

“Language, young man,” Dad says, chucking you lightly under the chin. You let out a playful little growl and swipe at his hand.

The rest of the evening is pretty chill—- you just hang out in the living room and watch TV all night. Dad comes in and tucks you in to bed when it’s time for you to go to sleep, rubbing a hand over your forehead to scent-mark you and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“I know you’re going to want to come find me when your rut really kicks into gear,” he says. “Don’t hesitate to follow me wherever I am. Even if it’s the middle of the night. I want you to be safe and have your pack around you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and he closes the door on the way out.

Your sleep is restless and fitful, full of strange dreams unlike any you’ve ever had before. When you wake up the next morning, all you’re able to remember is the thrill of the chase and blood pounding in your ears, not sure whether you’re the hunter or the prey but loving it anyway, and the burning, incredible feeling of hot skin against yours just after capture.

You wake up cold, sweaty, and almost glued to the mattress by a sticky dried fluid all around your boxers. It’s gross, and you feel gross, and you hate it.

But you’re distracted from the very gross situation in your underwear by the frantic, thrumming _need_ in your chest.

Where’s Dad? Where’s your pack? The pack has to be safe!

You don’t bother to change out of your dirty boxers before rushing into the hallway, almost slamming the door open in your alarm. Inhaling deeply, you catch the scent of wet felt and tobacco and follow it, sprinting to the bathroom where it originates.

You burst in, your heart thumping wildly, panting hard, and find your Dad with his shirt off and half his face lathered up, holding a razor.

As soon as you see him, some of the tension leaches out of your body. You cross the room quickly, wrap your arms around his waist, and bury your head in his back, rubbing your face over his shoulderblades. The scent-mark grounds you, makes you feel more real, makes you feel _safe_. Your pack is calm and at ease and you’re right there with him.

He pats you on the arm before lifting the razor to shave the rest of his face. “Feeling all right?” he asks, in between strokes.

You nod against his body. “‘M good,” you say, and your voice comes out as a rumble of contentment, a deep, adult Alpha croon. “You’re safe.”

For a while, you just stand like that, holding onto your Dad as he finishes shaving. When he’s done rinsing his blade off in the sink for the last time, you reluctantly take a step back. The movement makes your dried, crusty boxers rub against your legs, reminding you of how gross that is.

“Um,” you say, feeling your face heat up. “I’m gonna go get changed.”

Dad nods. “I’ll be in the kitchen making breakfast,” he says. “How do pancakes sound?”

You look at him hopefully. “What about waffles?”

Dad laughs and claps a hand to your shoulder. The force of it rocks you on your feet, but in like, a good way. It’s good to know that your Dad is solid and strong and _there_ , and he can keep the pack safe, since you’re too little and too young to really help, despite being an Alpha now.

“I suppose it isn’t every day a man goes through his first rut,” he says. “I’ll make waffles if you help with the dishes afterwards.”

You nod, although you also feel like your insides are squirming a little bit as you head back to your room.

You’re not a man. You’re _ten._ You’re about three years too young to be presenting Alpha. You don’t _want_ to be a man. At least, not yet.

Instead of talking about it, though, you just go to your bedroom and get changed.

You only end up separated from your father for like, maybe five minutes, but even that small amount of time gets your heart racing. The worry for your pack, not knowing if he’s safe, fills your chest, and when you’ve finally thrown on some clean clothes you end up sprinting down the stairs at full-speed.

Dad is in the kitchen, right where he said he would be, cooking up the waffles. He doesn’t turn as you enter, but does hold his hand out towards you and beckons. You run up and once more wrap your arms around him, rubbing your head against his offered hand.

“Doing all right there?” he asks, with fond amusement.

“Fine now,” you say. “The waffles smell _delicious._ ”

You follow Dad to his office after breakfast, feeling as if you’ve been tethered to him like a balloon on a string. You sit and chat and talk about nothing much in particular. Honestly, you’re kind of bored, but you don’t want to leave him at all.

You manage to ignore the way your skin is itching, the way the brush of your own clothing over your body makes you want to pant, for about an hour. That’s when the growing tight heat in your belly becomes impossible to ignore. You fidget and squirm in your seat, glancing at Dad out of the corner of your eye.

He grins knowingly. “Need something, son?”

You harrumph, crossing your arms, but stand up anyway. You scent-mark him with a brush of your wrist over his shoulder, and then quickly mark the doorway and windows of his office.

“Stay here, okay?” you say.

He raises his eyebrows at you once again. “What’s the magic word?” he says.

You roll your eyes. “ _Please_ stay here.”

You don’t even wait for his nod before darting up the stairs to your bedroom.

As soon as you’ve slammed the door shut, you realize that you’re already half-hard. Hot arousal courses through you— literally. Your skin feels like it’s burning up, and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating. You feel choked up, and you _want_ with a fervor you don’t really remember ever experiencing before.

You stand and stare down at your own erection, the way it’s tenting the front of your pants, and almost hesitantly touch the top of your dick through the fabric. It feels _amazing_ , and a shiver courses through you, like the ripple of waves, except instead of cool water it’s just a burning heat.

For some reason, touching yourself brings back the dreams from last night— the adrenaline of the chase, and the feeling of all that warm, smooth skin— and just thinking about those memories makes your breath come a bit faster. You scramble to get your fingers on your zipper and shove your clothing down.

You know that your body is changing— actually, it must have been changing for _months_ before now, because knots don’t just spontaneously form overnight. But you don’t look any different, as far as you can tell. It’s still just your dick, the same one you’ve had all your life. You’re stiff, and the tip is a little redder than normal, but nothing looks bigger or oddly textured or anything.

You slip your fingers around the base and squeeze gently, wondering if you’ll be able to feel it.

“ _Shit,”_ you gasp, as another wave of tight heat runs through your body. Fuck, okay, you’re _incredibly_ fucking sensitive there, apparently, although you don’t actually feel the bulk of your knot, yet.

God, you have to get off _right fucking now,_ or your dick is going to explode.

You slip down to the floor with a groan, back against the wall, and wrap your other hand around the shaft of your dick. Your hands are cold, and the chill makes shivers race up your spine, but damn, it feels good. Better than any time you’ve ever jacked off before, the nerves on fire as you slowly stroke your hands down to the base.

You’re so turned on you’ve already got a little bit of pre-cum bubbling up at the tip of your dick, and you thumb your finger through it, spreading it down around the shaft so that you have a bit of a smoother glide.

 _Fuck_ that feels good.

“Nnngh, fuck,” you moan, and rub the tip of your thumb back and forth.

You throw your head back against the wall, the _thunk_ so hard and loud you almost startle yourself, and stars spark at the corner of your vision. But the hormones coursing through your body don’t really let you register the pain, too focused on the incredible feeling of your own hands on your dick.

With a sigh, you close your eyes and imagine warm skin spread out beneath you, soft round breasts and a pert ass. It’s not anyone in particular, just a cobbled-together collection of women you’ve seen on the internet, but damn that’s a pretty image.

Round, full lips, painted dark red, whisper in your mind, “Alpha, _touch_ me, please.”

Your hips thrust upward, into your fist, and you stop trying for finesse or holding off or making this last. You just pump your hand frantically on your dick, moaning and panting and dreaming of those faceless lips wrapped around you.

You feel your knot swelling at the base in your hand before you notice the odd, heavy sensation in your dick. You’re definitely curious, almost curious enough to stop and examine it more closely, but you’re also so, _so_ fucking close, fuck fuck fuck.

You come with a muffled cry, showing your fist in your mouth to quiet yourself. It’s possibly the best orgasm you’ve _ever_ had, and you whimper as you come down from it. Your hand falls to the base of your dick, where your knot is swollen hot and hard. Almost instinctively, you squeeze it.

The wave of pleasure that rolls through you feels almost like a second orgasm. You gasp, and you feel more than see the jism spurting up out of the end of your dick, mostly because you have your eyes half-closed as you do so. You squeeze a bit harder around your knot and take in a deep, deep breath.

You seem to come for _forever._ You’re suddenly really glad you didn’t do this on your bed, because you would have gotten the sheets absolutely fucking filthy and it would have been a nightmare to clean up. Even as is, you’re going to have a hard time cleaning it up off the carpet on your floor. There’s like, an entire fucking puddle underneath you, and god, that looks _disgusting._

The bottom hem of your shirt is crusty with cum, so you wipe your dirty hand off on it, and then change into new clothes. Next time, you’ll get completely naked, and maybe put down some towels or something.

You have a feeling this is gonna happen a _couple_ more times before your first rut ends.

You head to the bathroom to wash your hands, and by the time you’re finished, part of your brain is screaming at you that you need to get to your pack again. You take a deep breath, remind yourself that Dad is an _adult_ and he’s safe, but you still run pell-mell down the stairs like the hounds of hell are on your heels.

You almost skid as you wind up back in Dad’s office, panting hard. He’s sitting right where you left him at his desk, working on something, and he hums and looks up when you come in.

“How’d it go?” he says, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh my god, Dad, no,” you say. “Don’t ask me that, it’s gross, ugh.”

He chuckles. “All right, all right,” he says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“No, seriously, it’s gross,” you say. “Do we have extra towels somewhere or something?”

Dad laughs. “I’m sure we can find something.”

He stands and pulls you close to his side. You lower your head and breathe in the soothing, tobacco-and-wet-felt scent of him, a rumbling purr forming in the back of your throat.

You’re way too young for this, and you’re not ready to be a man.

But your Dad’s here for you. Your pack Alpha will protect you.

“Now,” Dad says, “About those dishes…”

**Author's Note:**

> I have written a LOT over the past month and I'm hoping to have some more stuff I can share with y'all pretty soon here!


End file.
